


Cloaks of Red and Eyes of Gold

by Smiley5494



Series: English Assignments [6]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Awesome Freya (Merlin), Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Fairytale elements, Red Riding Hood Elements, and it happens in canon?, but it also is in a way, does it count as major character death, handed this in as an english assignment so there is hardly any use of names except for freya's, if shes not technically a major character, ish, like not explicitly a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25912069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smiley5494/pseuds/Smiley5494
Summary: There are stories of monsters and stories of girls. Of cloaks of red, and eyes of gold.“This story is a scary one,” her mother says as the flames grow, “but never fear, my love, for the monster always dies in the end."
Relationships: Freya/Merlin (Merlin)
Series: English Assignments [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671247
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Cloaks of Red and Eyes of Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Red as Blood and Roses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264520) by [aleope_and_so_on](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleope_and_so_on/pseuds/aleope_and_so_on). 



There are stories of monsters and stories of girls. Of cloaks of red, and eyes of gold.

Her mother tells her stories. Stories of working as a nurse, a healer, and stories of monsters hunting for prey. She likes the stories of monsters best, even if they give her nightmares. She sits in the grass by the fire and listens as her mother weaves tales. The smoke makes the shapes her mother speaks of, and her mother’s larger golden eyes survey her own smaller ones. The red burns behind her eyes as she sleeps, flashes of the memories her mother shares.

“This story is a scary one,” her mother says as the flames grow, “but never fear, my love, for the monster always dies in the end."

There are stories of things that go bump in the night. Of cloaks of red, and absence of light.

There are stories of a terrible beast with wicked claws, piercing eyes and a golden crown. 

A beast with a cloak the colour of the pyre, the colour of the blood spilt by his sword. Who lives in a kingdom she must never approach.

There are stories of fear and stories of senseless slaughter. Thousands dead by hands bathed in red, one hero with eyes burning with gold. The beastly king is struck down and replaced by a kind one, a good one. Balance is restored, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, _a king for a king._

She learns to fear the red of kingly cloaks.

* * *

There are stories of monsters and stories of girls. Of cloaks of red, and eyes of gold.

Her mother sends her off to play with the other children. She is older now, old enough to see the way her mother flinches at the glimpse of a red cloak. Old enough to hear the meaning behind her tales. 

“Beware, child,” her mother says, twisting the leather bands on her wrists, “for there are monsters in the smiles of men, beasts hidden behind red cloaks and silver swords. Promise me you will be careful?”

“I promise, Mother.”

“Good,” her mother leans down and plants a kiss on her daughter’s cheek, ties tight a bracelet of leather around her daughter’s wrist, knowing she will be hunted for her talents, burned for the power beneath her skin, the druid’s mark hidden by the leather, the gold in hidden in her eyes. 

_Run, run, while you still can my child,_ she wants to say. “I love you, Freya.” Her mother says instead, because the hero is never moved by the voice of reason, only by declarations of love.

Freya fits right in, as small and helpless as she is, and the children pull her into their games without question. They cheer as they pull coarse red fabric around their shoulders and raise swords of wood. They laugh as they hunt. They tell her the stories of their games, delighted by her. She doesn’t know how they can’t see the ghosts of the druids, their golden eyes filled with tears, their screams of pain caught in the wind. 

_You can play with us again tomorrow,_ they say to her, _you can even play the evil druid, if you like._ She wants to scream, _your stories have it backwards, her mother’s magic is not evil, we are not monsters._ She wants to make them hear her truths, she wants to make them see the memories of the dead, made corporeal as shades of their former selves.

She still comes back to play with them.

They tell her stories of monsters in the dead of the night, of monsters who’s eyes burn molten, golden and bright. Monsters with curses dripping from their lips.

They tell her stories of the golden-eyed monsters hunted by the ones cloaked in red.

They speak of peace, a kingdom without fear.

She thinks of her mother, flinching at red, the burn of the pyre urging her on.

Their words worm their ways into her mind.

She still fears red, but now gold makes her think twice.

* * *

Freya is older still and she works to help pay for the little house in the forest that she stays at with her mother. She still sits by her mother’s feet and listens to her stories, but she also watches the children play in the village. She sees the way they laugh and cheer.

Her mother is older, frail, though her work is steady and her hands do not shake. The grey is more prominent, the gold never flares in either pair of eyes where others can see. Her mother uses it to light their little fireplace, but she never does, fearing the gold in her eyes as much as she fears the red of kingly cloaks.

Seeing her mother weaker, in pain, makes her think of the stories. How in both versions the monster always dies in the end. She hates herself for the thoughts, knowing that her mother is no monster.

She finishes her work and one of the other girls stops her outside the backdoor. Her mother healed this girl’s brother and she remembers the look in the girl’s eyes when she gave the news. 

“Thank you. You and your mother.” The girl says, draping a red cloak around Freya’s shoulders. She steps back and gives a small nod. It is heavy and soft and feels like betrayal. 

“It suits you.” The girl says, even if Freya hears, _you bear the colour of monsters on both your shoulders and in your eyes._ She tries to give it back but the girl refuses and waves her excuses off.

The cloak gives her warmth and feels like the imagined lick of flames at the pyre. The night is dark and cold and for the first time she is thankful for the red cloak, even if it still feels like betrayal. 

There is no colour in the forest at night. No colour except for the foreboding red of her cloak. The trees are dark smudges on her vision, too thick to see through, too absent to draw comfort from. They turn towards her, casting moonlit shadows over the narrow path towards home. The wind howls and bites at her ankles, driving her forward and holding her back in the same moment.

The snap of a stick under a foot draws her attention from her wandering thoughts. She spins, feeling claustrophobic in the dark, the trees seeming larger, appearing closer. She draws the cloak of red tighter around herself as a monstrous shield, the symbol of the hunters protecting the hunted.

There is silence as she stares into the dark, searching for anything out of place. 

There is silence as she holds the cloak around herself and lets herself think of the golden magic in her eyes.

There is silence as she finds nothing hidden between the trees.

She turns away, following the dark path back towards her home. The trees seeming more welcoming the longer she walks, the dark less cold and more inviting.

A flash of red out of the corner of her eye is the only warning she gets. She turns, face to face with an older man in red, and stumbles back in fear.

The night is dark and yet every feature on his pale face stands out in stark relief. His eyes bore into her, and his mouth forms into a sneer. She can see the lines on his face, the small scar on his jaw. Where he is large, she is small, years of struggling, years of hard labour with little food have left her waif-like, trembling in the dark; the sole focus of the man before her. 

There is nowhere to run, her path is narrow and she does not trust herself to not get lost. He is twice her size and leans over her, the red of his cloak the only colour she can see. Her own cloak hangs behind her, useless to keep out the cold, the betrayal thick around her neck, her only shield gone.

He is bare seconds before reaching her when her hands reach his throat. He can snap her in half with ease, but before he can try her eyes flare gold.

Then he is dead and she is stumbling away and there is so much blood beneath her nails and there is a woman and the woman is reaching for her and _the woman’s eyes are molten gold—_

* * *

She can feel the moment the curse hits, the moment her body and mind betray her.

Her body shifts, muscled and strong. Her bones break and reform, and the pain snaps something in the back of her mind. 

She would scream if she still had control over her own movements. She sees red instead, and before she knows she’s waking up with her hands covered in blood; her eyes gold, her cloak red.

The dead man’s mother curses her to kill for every night she lives. 

She remembers her own mother’s stories about balance, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, _a child for a child._ She wonders who the woman is taking revenge on—her or the world.

* * *

There are whispers in the village. 

Hushed stories told over alcohol. Cautionary tales in the children’s ears. _Don’t go out at night. Mark my words, child,_ they say, huddled together for warmth, hiding from death, hiding from her, _if you wander around the beast will catch you._

She hears, and she knows. She draws the red around herself in the form of a dress and when no one is watching her eyes flare with forbidden gold.

* * *

There are stories of monsters and girls, of cloaks of red and eyes of gold.

She is no longer afraid of the stories her mother tells her. 

She is no longer afraid of the flashes of gold in her mother’s weary eyes, for it is her eyes she fears.

She is no longer afraid of a far away beast with terrible claws, a cloak of red and a crown of gold. 

Instead she fears the beast far closer to her, the one with silky fur and immense wings.

* * *

There are whispers in the village. 

There are whispers of _kill the monster,_ whispers of _send for help,_ whispers of _so many dead._

They come for her with their cloaks of red and silver swords.

They put a price on her head and she thinks again of her mother’s balance.

They catch her quickly, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, _gold for gold._

She is chained with her eyes of gold, in her dress of red.

* * *

There are whispers in the village.

They parade her in front of the entire population, and in the back she can see her mother’s face. She can’t see her mother’s eyes from her position but she _knows._ She knows those eyes from years at her mother’s feet, from years listening to the stories.

There are whispers of _Freya,_ cries of _how could it be Freya._

Her eyes catch on faces in the crowd, the people who played with her all those years ago, the people who her mother saved, the ghosts of the druids with golden eyes filled with endless tears.

Her mother’s voice echoes in her mind, the many declarations of love over the years ringing in her ears, the way her mother forms the words “I love you, Freya,” burned behind her eyes. She wishes she could return the words her mind supplies but she knows she cannot call out. She has given up on hiding and her eyes are gold.

Whispers of _Freya_ turn to shouts of _monster_ and she lets her head hang and the truth wash over her.

The girl who gave her the cloak of red turns away. 

The woman who cursed her meets her eyes and smiles.

The guards tug at her chains and force her into a cage of iron.

She is ashamed that all she can feel is relief.

* * *

She is taken to the kingdom she must never approach, and brought before the far away beast with terrible claws, a cloak of red and a golden crown.

The beast does not look like her monster. 

He looks like the person she passes on the street, forgettable and unremarkable in every way except one. He wears the cloak of red and the golden crown of her mother’s stories, and his piercing blue eyes meet her teary golden ones. 

He is simply a man, a man who tells her that she is to be killed for who she was born as, killed for the curse the woman had placed upon her.

He is simply a man, a man who looks her in her eyes and tells her that she will be killed for something she cannot control.

She does not argue.

* * *

She is safe in her cage when the boy finds her. 

He comes to break her out while the guards are distracted, she watches him from the safety of her cage.

He wears a scarf of red around his neck like a collar and when he sees her his eyes flare gold.

She goes with him, because here is a monster just like her.

* * *

He hides her in a hidden cave in the kingdom she must never approach and she flinches away from every sound. 

She tries to tell him she is cursed but he doesn’t understand.

He tells her she is safe, that she doesn’t have to fear the gold in her eyes.

She asks him _why,_ and he looks her in the eye and tells her, _it could have been me in that cage._

She doesn’t attempt to tell him about her monster again.

He asks for her favourite foods and he steals them for her. He brings her light and blankets and shows her his magic. She is hidden away, but she thinks that she could be happy; if only for a day.

He summons butterflies using the gold in his eyes, and they speak of a house in the mountains overlooking a lake.

He is easy to talk to, and easy to like.

 _Oh,_ she thinks as he bids her goodnight, _here is someone I could love._

* * *

Her monster kills that night.

Cries of alarm rise up, the bell is ringing a deadly threat.

Her boy sneaks away to see her and they talk of the house on the mountain, the house with no fear.

She does not tell him that she is not like him, she does not tell him the she is not kind and innocent like he. She does not think of the red of her dress or the gold in her eyes. She does not think about the pyre that awaits her when the hunters find her scent.

She thinks instead of her boy as he brings her flowers and fruit. She thinks she might be in love with him and yet she can’t find it within herself to be afraid.

She thinks instead of a house on a mountain overlooking a lake.

* * *

Her monster kills again. 

She has no control, and the price on her head rises with every night she breathes, but her love brings her strawberries and tells her of his work. 

It is peaceful, sitting in the cave with her love, not caring about the hunt for her head, or the red that everyone in the kingdom wears. It’s nice sitting by her love’s side, talking about strawberries and roses and running away to a house on the mountains overlooking a lake.

* * *

They corner her monster with their cloaks of red and silver swords. 

Her monster fights to kill and the boy in the lead matches the intensity. He issues commands to his men and gets her cornered between a few houses. He has a cloak of red and his silver sword pierces her side, even as her love tries his best to stop him.

She can feel the moment the curse breaks, the way something wild, something bloodthirsty, snaps inside her. Her form shifts, the pain that each transformation carries hidden by the pain of the wound on her side. Her mind goes to the woman’s revenge. She thinks of her mother’s balance, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, _a death for a death._

They congratulate themselves on a job well done, even as her love carries her away under the cover of night.

She knows the curse would only break when she no longer draws breath.

* * *

The monster always dies in the end, and she watches her love as he lays her by the lake. There is no house but the lake is there, and she loves him fiercely in her final moments. He is crying, begging her to stay. His tears fall and all she can say is, _thank you, for loving a monster like me._

The monster always dies in the end, and Freya’s eyes burn with gold as her head rests in her love’s lap, her stolen dress stained with the red of the blood from her side.

There are whispers in her village. Whispers of _the monster is dead._ Whispers of _we are safe._

There are stories of a terrible beast with wicked claws, piercing eyes and a golden crown.

There are stories of things that go bump in the night. Of cloaks of red, and absence of light.

There are stories of monsters in the dead of the night, of monsters who’s eyes burn golden and bright.

There are stories of monsters and girls, of monsters who once were girls, and girls who became their own monsters.

There are stories of monsters and girls, of cloaks of red and eyes of gold.


End file.
